


Flirting with Danger

by BoldAsBrass



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Dubious Consent, First Time, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 08:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21013103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldAsBrass/pseuds/BoldAsBrass
Summary: When Yassen saves his life by claiming Alex is his boyfriend, Alex should probably have guessed that there would be a catch.





	Flirting with Danger

The trouble with expensively furbished boats with identical mahogany-faced doors was that in a hurry, as Alex was, it was easy to become disorientated. The left-hand door was not, as it turned out, the door which led to the passageway down to the engine room. The left-hand door led into the wardroom, where a group of men were standing at a long table examining the boat’s charts. There were four of them. Alex’s three old friends: Hipster Beard from the coffee shop, the homeless man from the pier and Warren Pearce, the harbourmaster. And at their centre, unmistakable though Alex could only see the back of his bent neck, the slim black-clad figure of Yassen Gregorovich, the Russian assassin.

The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges and for a second Alex dared to hope he had got away with it. Then, alerted perhaps by a shift in the light or a change in the sound of the boat’s engines, Yassen turned on his heel, a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol already in his hand. A second later, the others followed suit.

“It’s him!” Pearce exclaimed. “The guy I was telling you about. The one sneaking about the docks last night.”

Homeless Guy also had a gun, a Beretta M9, pointing straight at Alex’s head. Hipster Beard just glared at Alex like he wanted to be holding a gun. A purpling bruise on his left cheekbone distorted his handsome features.

“Burglar?” said Homeless Guy. “Or customs?” He’d lost his Devonshire burr, speaking instead with a clipped New England accent, and the hand holding the gun no longer shook.

“Bit fresh-faced for customs,” Pearce objected. “They don’t normally recruit them straight out of school.”

“Not a burglar,” said Yassen. His pale blue eyes tracked up and down Alex’s body, taking in the graze on his chin and the diesel stains on his knees. Alex waited, braced for the hail of bullets about to tear into his flesh. At least it would be quick, he comforted himself, Yassen would grant him that small mercy. “Not a customs officer either,” Yassen added.

“Who is he then?” Hipster Beard asked.

“Alex,” Yassen said with a slight shrug and returned his gun to its underarm holster.

The remaining men exchanged a baffled glance. “And who’s Alex?” Homeless Guy wanted to know.

Yassen rested his hips against the map table and folded his arms, choosing his next words with care. “My boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend?” said Hipster Beard.

“Your _boyfriend_?” Pearce echoed.

Your_ what_ now? thought Alex.

Yassen looked between them. His expression didn’t alter, but the temperature in the wardroom dropped by a dozen degrees. “Is this a problem?”

“Not a problem,” Pearce said heartily.

“Fine by me,” said Homeless Guy. He lowered his gun arm to his side.

“My cousin’s gay,” said Hipster Beard.

“That’s nice,” Yassen said flatly.

Alex was the first to recover. “Great!” he said brightly into the pause that followed. “Well, nice meeting you all.” He found he was still holding the detonator and slipped it stealthily into his back pocket. “Hey, er,” he paused, realising he had no idea what alias Yassen was using, “babe, I didn’t realise you had company. I’ll catch you later, yeah?” He flashed a quick grin and took a long, slow step backwards.

“Not so fast,” said Yassen. “Babe.”

“No?” said Alex, taking another hopeful step. One more and he’d be out in the passageway, where he’d give himself even odds on making it up to the deck.

“No.” Yassen beckoned. “Come here.”

Alex cast a longing look towards the door but Homeless Guy was still holding the Beretta and Yassen’s expression brooked little debate. Dutifully, he set out across the cabin, treading diesel into the carpet with each reluctant step. Past Pearce, whose normally ruddy features were looking unusually pale, past Homeless Guy, who appeared puzzled now rather than sceptical, past Hipster Beard who glowered at him resentfully.

“What’s up?” he asked when he and Yassen were within arm’s reach. His casual tone was forced. It had been three years since their paths had last crossed and he had forgotten Yassen’s physical presence: the almost tangible sense of threat which emanated from his pale skin. Standing this close to him made Alex’s scalp prickle and fizz, as though he was standing beneath a high-voltage cable.

Yassen regarded him expressionlessly. “‘What’s up’ is you haven’t been in touch for days. Say hello to your boyfriend.”

“Hi?” he said, uncertain where this was going.

A faint line appeared between Yassen’s blond brows. “Now say hello properly.”

Properly? Properly how? With a _frisson_ of alarm he realised Yassen was looking at his mouth. Surely, he thought, even Yassen wouldn't go that far? But his confidence turned out to be misplaced. Yassen _was_ planning to kiss him. And it was not the gentle brush of lips that a man might bestow upon a deceased colleague’s orphan son. It was, however, exactly the sort of kiss which a pissed off and possessive older boyfriend might give to his younger, feckless partner: one hand gripping his hair, the other pressed to the small of his back, and his mouth hard, angry and demanding. Even when they pulled apart, Yassen didn’t release him. His left hand remained fastened in Alex’s hair and with the right he caressed broadly over his backside, locating and identifying without effort the exact make and model of the detonator secreted in his jean’s pocket.

“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble,” he said. A tight squeeze of his searching hand brought Alex into sharp contact with his hips, and with it the unnerving realisation that Yassen was barely acting at all. “And now you have some explaining to do.”

Alex stared down at his set pale features, his lips still burning from the heat of their kiss. When he was younger, he had imagined that being taller than Yassen might give him some sort of psychological advantage. As it turned out, he’d been wrong about that too. It just put Yassen’s teeth closer to his throat. “Okay?” he managed.

“Leave us for half an hour,” Yassen said to the watching men. “Alex and I need to catch up.”

It was amazing how fast three people could clear a room when they really didn’t want to be there. In under five seconds, they were alone.

“So,” said Yassen. He released his hold on Alex’s hair, but his other arm stayed wrapped around his waist, blocking any attempt at escape. “Little Alex Rider. Not so little anymore. All grown up now.”

Alex essayed a nonchalant shrug, doing his best to ignore the unnerving heat of Yassen’s hips jammed against his. Maybe, if neither of them mentioned it, the matter would simply... subside. “I’m surprised you recognised me.” In the intervening years he’d filled out, going from gangly adolescent to broad-shouldered man, while his hair had darkened from fair to light brown. Yassen, by comparison, appeared barely changed. Perhaps a few more lines bracketing his mouth, a few flecks of silver at his temples, but otherwise he looked the same as he always had: smooth, coolly elegant, deadly.

An ironic smile touched the corner of Yassen’s mouth. “Oh, I would recognise you anywhere, Alex. You and your unparalleled talent for mayhem. The cargo manifest going missing, that was you?”

“Yeah.” There seemed little point in denying it now.

“And the bomb squad closing the pier yesterday, that was you too?”

“Yeah.”

“And the attack on Hayes, last night. That was you.”

Hayes was Hipster Beard, Alex deduced. “Technically speaking, he attacked me.”

“And now you’ve come to blow up my boat,” Yassen continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.

When everything was listed out like that, it did sound quite bad. “Not all of your boat.”

Yassen nodded slowly. “Part of my boat. Which part?”

“The engine,” Alex admitted.

“You see, I like that part working.”

“Yeah,” Alex said. He could see why, from Yassen’s perspective, that would be the preferable option.

Yassen took the detonator from Alex’s pocket and cast it carelessly onto the table where it landed with a clatter. “You have given me a difficult few days, Alex. My employers are not happy with me. They have decided to abort the operation. You interrupted us discussing the best way to leave without further alarming the port authorities.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Alex lied.

The smile returned, more pronounced this time, revealing a row of even white teeth. “Oh, you don’t have to be sorry. You can make things better for me. Very easily.”

“How so?” he asked warily. Yassen’s initial annoyance appeared to have waned. His arm had relaxed its vice-like hold and was resting quite naturally around Alex’s waist. But that smile was worrying him. Yassen rarely smiled and when he did it rarely boded well for those in his presence.

His premonition proved accurate. “Like a boyfriend would.”

The words were so reasonably spoken, so mildly phrased, that it took a moment or two for their implication to sink in. When it did, Alex’s world tilted in a way which had little to do with the slow rocking of the boat. “Yeah, but I’m not your boyfriend?” he managed through lips which were suddenly numb.

Yassen gave a philosophical shrug. “Pretend.”

“Pretend how?”

Yassen’s eyes fixed on his, alarming in their intensity. “Well, what would someone do, if his boyfriend had had a bad day? What would help him feel better?”

“Pop out and get him a takeaway?” he suggested a little desperately. They were a mile from shore, but he was happy to swim.

A sideways dip of the chin, as though awarding him half a point for originality. “I had something more personal in mind.”

“Run him a bath?” he tried again. Would there be baths on the boat? Probably. There seemed to be everything else. “Let him have control of the remote?”

“Why don’t you take off your top?” Yassen suggested. “Give me something nice to look at while you think.”

He hesitated, but the Smith and Wesson was still nestled beneath Yassen’s left arm and the light in his eyes told Alex that he would not be prepared to play this game for much longer. “You’ll have to let go of me first.”

Without speaking, Yassen released his hold and Alex stripped off his clothes. It would have taken him a while even if he had been trying to hurry. There was a heavy woollen sweater to negotiate, then an uninflated life jacket and finally a short sleeve neoprene top.

Yassen considered the life jacket without comment, then turned his attention to Alex’s naked torso, looking first at his chest, then at his stomach, then the fuzzy trail between his belly button and the waistband of his jeans. His lips pressed momentarily together. From anyone else it would have meant nothing; from Yassen, it was practically a wolf whistle. “You’ve been working out.”

Alex shrugged awkwardly. “Karate and swimming, mostly. Yoga, once a week.”

But Yassen had other things on his mind besides the details of Alex’s exercise routine. His eyes tracked back up his chest and focussed with pinpoint accuracy on his kiss-swollen mouth. “I think you should suck me off,” he announced. “That will make me feel better.”

Probably at that point Alex should have fled for the deck, pinning his hopes on Yassen’s continued unwillingness to shoot him and refusing to compromise what remained of his principles in a tawdry exchange of sexual favours for safety. Probably that’s what he should have done, but terror pinned him to the spot. Or something close to terror, anyway. Shock, perhaps, and beneath it a sense of inevitability. A treacherous voice whispering in his ear that sooner or later this had been bound to happen, if not with Yassen then with somebody like him. Maybe somebody worse.

However, the apparent inevitability of the situation didn’t mean Alex was prepared to go down - no pun intended - without a fight. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a nice bath?”

The suggesion was met with a decisive shake of the head. “A blow job will be fine, thank you.”

“It’s not going to help you with the port authorities,” he pointed out.

But Yassen’s hands were already on his belt, unbucking and loosening with a speed at odds with his impassive demeanour. “Let me worry about the port authorities.”

“I haven’t said yes, yet,” he protested as the belt strap slipped free of its moorings with a soft whisper of leather.

Yassen’s attention shifted to his trouser buttons. “I’ve saved your skin four times now, Alex. It’s time for you to start saying ‘thank you.’”

“Yeah, but-” The situation had begun moving precariously fast. He cast about for something, anything, to buy himself more time. “One of those times you made me fight a bull. That shouldn’t count.”

This observation did net him a few second’s grace, alongside a chilly blue stare. “And another of those times I was shot in the chest for my trouble,” Yassen replied with unanswerable logic. “That counts for two.”

“No-” Alex began, but his objections were interrupted by the sound of a zipper. His gaze darted involuntarily to the source of the sound, then darted away, his face reddening. Any faint remaining hope that this might be a deadpan Russian joke evaporated. Yassen’s close-fitting dark underwear was doing little to disguise that he was decidedly, emphatically, serious. Moving deliberately, he skimmed trousers and underwear over his hips, then leaned against the table, palms resting on the surface in an attitude of expectant readiness. Still, Alex hesitated. What would his uncle think of him now? Preparing to debase himself in front of the man responsible for his untimely death? But he already knew the answer to that question. Ian Rider would expect Alex to do whatever he had to in order to live to fight another day.

Sensing his weakening resolve, Yassen pointed wordlessly to the patch of carpet between his spread feet.

“A proper boyfriend would let me sit down,” he muttered as he thumped to his knees. The wardroom had a bench running along its stern side, where he could have sat in relative comfort.

His protests, however, fell on deaf ears. “Less talking, more thanking,” Yassen advised.

Alex was too busy inspecting what lay before him to dignify that with an answer. It was, he thought, not unlike the man himself: smooth skinned and neat looking. Not monstrously large but very definitely present. Manageable, he decided with a sense of relief. If he was going to have to give head in service of Queen and country, then there were worse places to start. Reconnaissance complete, he pushed his hair back from his forehead and tried to think things through logically. There had to be a way to turn this set of circumstances to his advantage. Gain the upper hand, recover the detonator, disable the boat’s engine and save the day. A sudden hunch made him glance upwards, and he saw Yassen was watching intently, as if he could read Alex’s thoughts.

“That's right, little soldier,” he murmured when their eyes met. “Be brave.”

Responding more to the challenge in his voice than the words themselves, Alex reached out to touch the peaking pink head, and felt a jolt of surprise at the answering sharp twitch.

Something about his reaction made Yassen’s eyes narrow. “You have done this before?” he asked, a note of interrogation entering into his voice.

“Yeah,” he said snatching back his hand. “Of course.” He _had_ done this before. Although only once or twice and never in front of so critical an audience. Still how difficult could it be? Like riding a bike, right? You never really forgot.

“Of course,” Yassen repeated. He studied Alex’s expression a moment longer before reclining elegantly against the table. “Then don’t hold back on my account.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” he muttered, but quietly. He would have died rather than admit his lack of experience to those mocking blue eyes. It wasn’t about SCORPIA or the Smith and Wesson, or even his uncle. Yassen was not going to know.

He tried again, brushing his fingertips along the shaft, assessing the terrain and finding it hot, smooth and hard. Okay. With a deep breath, he bent his head and curved his tongue to drag it in slow exploration up the underside, then paused, considering taste. Yassen made a low noise of interest and shifted closer, and some of Alex’s trepidation eased. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so difficult. What was it they said? Even a bad blow job was a good blow job. Growing bolder, he nibbled his lips from the base of the shaft to the tip, tickling for a moment at the underside of the crown before exhaling heat onto its glossy head. Two slow breaths, then he pulled back and wrapped his hand around the shaft, thinking to mix things up a little.

Yassen, however, was growing impatient. “Enough stalling. Give me your mouth.”

Alex sat back on his heels, face hot with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. He hadn’t been stalling he’d been trying to make it feel good. “You’re lucky I don’t bite it off,” he retorted.

The pause which followed was long enough for him to register that threatening to emasculate a professional hitman was probably not his wisest decision, but not nearly long enough for him to regret his words. There were some things you didn’t say and criticising someone’s sexual technique when they were in the midst of performing it on you was close to the top of his list.

Yassen matched his indignant glare stare for stare. Then, without warning, the corners of his mouth tucked inwards, and Alex realised with chagrin that he was trying not to laugh. “Like a boyfriend, Alex. Not a porn star.”

“And what’s that meant to mean?” he muttered feeling more foolish by the second.

“Your mouth is enough.” It was a milder response than he had expected, given the circumstances, still Alex made no attempt to resume. Of the two of them, he wasn’t the one hoping to have his cock sucked, so of the two of them, he wasn’t the one who needed to make amends. Yassen looked at his open trousers then back at Alex's defiant expression and apparently drew a similar conclusion. “If you please,” he added silkily.

“Fine.” With an indignant huff, he braced one hand on the table and, before he could overthink things further, took Yassen into his mouth.

A long silence followed, then Yassen sighed and his hands came to rest on Alex’s head, raking slowly through his hair. “Yes, like that.”

If he had ever wondered what sex with Yassen might be like, Alex would have assumed it to be silent, mechanical, efficient. Once again, he would not have been entirely correct. Yassen wasn’t loud, it was true, but he was certainly vocal when he was pleased, his murmurs mixing gently with the soft noises of Alex’s mouth and the distant plash of the sea. The combination was strangely hypnotic. Partway through, Alex forgot he was supposed to find the act debasing. Forgot about the detonator resting on the table top a few metres away from his bracing hand. Forgot even, about Yassen’s bloody past. The world narrowed down to the slick slide against his lips, the stretch of his jaw, the steamy soapy scent of hot skin and the taste of salt on his tongue. Gradually, they found a rhythm. Yassen rolling his hips forward to meet his mouth and Alex, doing his best to keep his teeth clear, taking in as much as he could, until, suddenly, four rapid thrusts, Yassen gripping his hair, and it was done.

He spat into the jumper, then caught hold of the table and pulled himself to his feet satisfied he had acquitted himself, if not with honour, then at least with reasonable competence. The detonator was still on the tabletop. He flung the jumper over it and looked about for his neoprene top. It took him a while to locate it, longer to untangle it from the lifejacket. He was feeling a little light-headed, truth be told, his brain having difficulty getting his fingers to follow its instuctions. By the time he was done, Yassen had finished adjusting his clothing and was watching his fumblings with coolly amused tolerance.

“Going somewhere?” he asked when Alex caught his eye.

“Home?”

“I don’t think so.”

Alex’s heart sunk. Foolishly perhaps, it had never occured to him that Yassen wouldn't let him leave once they were done. Now he realised he had been made no promises, given no assurances about his continued safety. He had just assumed that their tentative ceasefire would hold. “Why not?” he asked, with more bravado than he felt.

“Well,” Yassen said, eminently reasonable. “I can’t let you go home like that.”

“Like what?”

A nod towards his crotch. “That.”

“Oh.” Trepidation was replaced by a more complicated mix of emotions. “That.” He’d been doing his best not to think about it but when he glanced downwards he saw even the double layer of neoprene shorts and denim jeans couldn’t fully disguise the insistent bulge intent upon forcing its way into public attention. He busied himself with straightening the lifejacket straps. “Don’t worry about it. It will keep me warm on the swim back.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Right.” Alex darted him a suspicious look, but it was true Yassen didn’t appear worried. His face was as smooth and placid as a bowl of cream.

“I’m just doing what any good boyfriend would do.”

Once again, Alex should have have run for the door. Or at least shambled towards it as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him. Or done something, at least, that wasn’t stand there gawping while Yassen fastidiously turned back his shirt cuffs. “Yeah, but you’re not my boyfriend?” he managed at last, on a note of rising panic.

“Pretend,” Yassen said. He pushed away from the table and moved across the cabin with languid intent.

“Pretend how?” he said stupidly. His voice seemed to come from a long way away. His feet felt as though they were rooted to the floor and the lifejacket dangled forgotten from his hand. He seemed unable to do anything but watch in wide-eyed apprehension as Yassen drew inexorably nearer.

Yassen’s smile was as enigmatic as a sphinx. “Like this.” As he spoke he slipped his palm down Alex’s stomach and beneath his neoprene shorts. His fingers were cool and terrifyingly strong, and the thin material of the swimming trunks provided little barrier to his questing hand. “You see?” he murmured as he reached his goal. "It’s not so hard to pretend.”

Alex stared straight ahead, breathing heavily. Nothing in SAS training had prepared him for this eventuality. “You don’t have to do this. It’s not your problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” Yassen said tranquilly, while beneath Alex’s shorts his fingers did terrible, wonderful things. “It won’t take a minute.”

His jaw dropped in indignation, but before he could gather his wits sufficiently to formulate a response, Yassen had taken him by the arm and was steering him backwards towards the stern bench. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, he registered with muzzy dismay as they meandered across the carpet. This was nowhere near the upper hand. Yassen was supposed to be on the back foot, dazed with pleasure while Alex recovered the detonator, disabled the boat and saved the day. He wasn’t supposed to be lying Alex down on soft cushions. Or kissing the hollow of his jaw. And he certainly wasn’t supposed to be peeling his shorts down his thighs with murmurs of pleased approval.

Embarrassingly, it turned out not to take very long at all. Everything was already sensitive, swollen and slippery and Yassen’s hand was practised and knowing. The combination, coupled with the soft insistent voice whispering in Alex’s ear - _Give it to me. Give it to me. All of it now. Give it to me -_ had him shooting over his chest in a series of hot guilty jerks after only half a dozen firm strokes.

But even then, his ordeal wasn’t over. Yassen wasn’t content with shamefaced, sticky victory; he wanted Alex’s complete and unconditional surrender. The cool fingers kept on working him and the soft voice whispered reproachfully - _That’s not all of it. You still have some more._

“No-” he croaked. But, as it turned out, he did still have quite a lot more, and Yassen wasn’t going to be content until he had milked every last drop from him and left him wrung out and gasping.

Afterwards, he would have slumped on to the floor had Yassen not caught him and hauled him back to safety. It was almost pleasant, lying on the bench in a vacant haze with another warm body pressed against his. But the idyll, if it was one, was short lived. After a few brief minutes, Yassen yawned like a cat, with a quick flash of pink tongue and white teeth, and poked him in the ribs. “You need to leave now. I have places to be.”

It took him a while to get dressed. His clothes didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Neoprene was difficult enough to wrestle on at the best of times, least of all when one was hot and sweaty. He left his jeans on the floor - he hadn’t been planning swimming in them in any case. And, after a last glance towards the table, he abanoned the detonator where it lay: his wits were too muddled to do anything with it even if he managed to retrieve it. Yassen, he saw with a trace of resentment, was experiencing no such after effects. If anything, he appeared rejuvenated, the hard lines around his mouth easing to be replaced by a sleek, well-petted look. He lounged on the bench, watching Alex dress with an indulgent air, every smooth blond hair radiating satisfaction. Only once the lifejacket was strapped into place did he seek to stir himself. “Alex?”

“What now?” he grumbled. He knew he was lucky to be allowed to walk out of the door, but he was tired and gritty-eyed and the prospect of the long, cold swim back to shore held little appeal.

“Say goodbye to your boyfriend.”

“You’re not-” he tried for one last time, but before he could complete his sentence. Yassen had risen from the bench, crossed the distance between them and was kissing him.

It was not a fraternal kiss, expressing farewell and best wishes for future endeavours. It was, however, exactly the sort of kiss which a possessive but mollified older boyfriend might bestow upon his younger feckless partner to remind him of what he would be missing if he stayed away too long: slow, lazy and bone-meltingly intense.

“Little Alex Rider,” he murmured against Alex’s lips when they eventually pulled apart. “You got away lightly today; you know that?”

He nodded reluctantly. He knew that. Yassen had, by his own warped standards, been lenient. “Yeah.”

Yassen seized his lower lip and tugged it between his teeth, then released him and began adjusting the straps on the lifejacket, tugging them tight in time to his words. “If I catch you again, it won’t just be your mouth that I want. You know that too?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying not to wince as the belt buckle cinched him uncomfortably tight.

“Yes,” Yassen said. “So, the next time you see me, you better run away very fast.” He gave the straps one last sharp tug, then turned Alex by the shoulders and pushed him towards the doorway.

Dismissed, he half-walked, half stumbled across the cabin, uncertain if it was the rocking of the boat, the thickness of the carpet, or the weakness in his knees making his legs so difficult to coordinate. He could feel Yassen’s eyes following as he went him, burning into his back like lasers.

“Unless,” Alex heard him murmur, almost to himself, “of course, you want to be caught.”

Alex’s stride faltered, but he straightened his shoulders and kept on walking.


End file.
